


untitled

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Choking, Other, Overstimulation, Sexual Roleplay, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12388812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: “Don’t look at me like that. I feel like you’re judging me.” Rodimus folds his arms defensively and Drift shakes his head.“I’m not! I guess I’m just a little...er…surprised? You’ve never been much of a fan of Decepticons.”Rodimus scratches absently at a tiny scuff in the paint of his forearm. “It’s not aboutDeadlock.It’s just… It’s about just. Going a little harder. I like when you get aggressive.” His optics flick up at Drift, and Drift is surprised to find he looks a bit tentative, even behind his smile. Not an emotion commonly worn by their boisterous captain.Drift smirks slightly. “Do you now? Thatdoesn’tsurprise me.”





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> I've finally given up on titles, with the permission of some other people (I guess?!)
> 
> The summary bit was originally in the fic (and a bit longer) but I hated having a short separate scene and just a really long one, so read that maybe, if that's something you're into. Or don't. It'll still make sense I think.

Days after Rodimus’ request, Drift thinks he’s finally mustered up the mental faculties to get into the character of his former identity. He moves restlessly around the room he shares with Rodimus, waiting for the other bot, but also slightly dreading his return. He thinks he’s prepared more or less what he wants to say, and do, but he’s rather hoping not to embarrass himself. Or worse, take anything too far. He’d made Rodimus agree on a safeword earlier, but isn’t too sure how much of that conversation was internalized. Rodimus had seemed a bit...giddy.

Drift leans against the wall and tries to focus himself. He’s not... _ not _ excited. He wouldn’t have done it had he been completely opposed. It’s just that, if he tries to think about how Deadlock might have interacted with his lover… Well. It makes him uncomfortable. Whereas Drift is always very focused on pleasing Rodimus, touching him, admiring him, his memory tells him Deadlock would disregard Rodimus and  _ take _ . But he knows this is what Rodimus wants, and the fact that he wants to give that, he supposes, changes things. He’s decided to center himself on that point. Rodimus  _ wants  _ him to take him, to take him  _ hard _ , to…to _ ravish _ him. And that isn’t necessarily something he’s opposed to doing.

All that’s left is the cheesy dialogue. Well, nearly all of it.

Drift straightens up against the wall a bit, trying to summon some Deadlock bravado to his form. He revs his engine experimentally, plays with the points on his fangs that he’d kept through numerous revisions of his frame, with some hesitation. But he’s sure they’ll add to the effect now. 

“Pitiful little Autobot,” he murmurs, sighing immediately and bringing his fingers to his brow. That had felt incredibly silly to announce to an empty room. He straightens up, tries to strut across the room, imagines Rodimus, and tries again, this time with a sneer, “ _ Pitiful _ little Autobot.” 

He stares at the chair he’d directed his words to, unable to shake the feeling of silliness and supposing he might not until they’re into the moment. 

He shifts his thoughts to Rodimus instead, trying to imagine times when maybe they had gotten a bit rough. The passion with which Rodimus kisses when pressed, he remembers vividly. Hands—both Rodimus’ and his own—grasping for any available limb, any paneling they could reach, squeezing, scraping even. Drift revs his engine again and feels a bit of a chill down his backstruts. This feels better.

Drift loses himself in thought a little bit, perhaps getting himself a bit hotter than he’d intended by the time to door opens, and it surprises him a little. He flounders for his dropped Decepticon swagger, and for a moment he and Rodimus just stare at each other. In the end, he settles on, as sinister as he can muster, “ _ You _ .”

It must not come off as very sinister in the end, because Rodimus’ response is to cross the room towards where Drift is standing and set down a datapad he’d been carrying. “Me,” he says, completely missing Drift’s intonation, but making a face like he thinks this is a bit of an odd greeting.

Drift falters slightly, but decides to commit. Despite his mild embarrassment, he’s spurred on by the fantasizing he’d just been doing about Rodimus, which has actually got him more bothered than he’d thought, and caves into his impulse, which is to shove Rodimus against the wall. 

It’s rough and sloppy, and harder than he’d meant to do it, causing Rodimus’ helm to slam against it, but Drift tries to keep his face a bit hard as he pins Rodimus’ wrist with one hand and keeps his other forearm against his chest and neck. 

“Oh,  _ yes _ , Primus _ , thank you _ ,” he mutters, melting slightly and beginning to wiggle with excitement under Drift’s grasp. Drift shoves his arm against him a bit harder, but his face twitches a bit.

“You remember the safeword, right?” he whispers, as if breaking character doesn’t count if the judges in the room (of which there are none) don’t hear him. 

“Yeah, it’s ‘semicolon,’” Rodimus says, taking on his whispered tone. They’d gotten their inspiration from Ultra Magnus. “Don’t worry, this is already great. Keep going. Don’t hold back.” He raises his voice a bit. “What do you want with me, Deadlock?” Rodimus overacts a bit, perhaps out of eagerness, but this and his words put Drift at ease that his own roleplaying might not quite be up to par with where he thought it should be.

Drift pulls himself back to his script. “Stop wiggling, runt.” He shoves Rodimus again. “You thought you could just sneak in here and free all your  _ pitiful  _ little Autobot friends, didn’t you?” 

He hopes his narrative makes enough sense and isn’t too distracting. He’d cast around for something he hoped would be simple enough that they could just…get into it, and then frag each other’s brains out, basically. Rodimus is trying to look angry, but is obviously pleased with the amount of effort Drift is putting in keeping him against the wall, judging from how jittery he is. It’s probably not enough restraint, Drift realizes. “I told you to keep  _ still _ .” Twisting his arm off Rodimus’ chest, he flips it around and grabs Rodimus’ other wrist, now pinning both of them against the wall and easing in closer to his helm in a way he imagines he must have once thought was intimidating.

Rodimus laughs, and it seems a bit like genuine enjoyment. “You’re too late  _ Deadlock _ , they’re all safe and gone already, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

It feels inappropriate to Drift that he should be so fond of Rodimus in this moment for playing into his silly little roleplay, but it makes it a bit easier to turn his smile into a sneer, revealing the sharpened denta still in his mouth. “Maybe so, but I’ve still got you.” Drift flicks his optics over what he can of Rodimus’ frame for show, keeping his sneer confident and predatory. “Maybe I’ll take out a little bit of my frustration on you. And then I’ll pack up the scraps of whatever’s left with a neat little bow and send them to Megatron in an envelope.” Drift is actually surprised at how easily the superficial Decepticon dialogue flows from his lips. Primus knows he’s said scrap like this plenty of times and truly meant it. And it had been effective. But perhaps the context of why he’s saying it gives him pause as to why, because he can hardly take himself seriously saying this now. It does seem to be landing appropriately, as he hears Rodimus’ vents hitch.

Rodimus makes a show of struggling to get out of Drift’s grasp, but the attempt is clearly a half-hearted act that’s part of whatever character he’s playing. “Do what you want with me, but I’m sure it’ll be nothing compared to what Megatron does to you when he finds out.”

This is actually not so difficult now that they’ve started. “Trust me, Autobot, you won’t be around long enough to have to worry about that,” Drift says easily. He hadn’t expected to get quite so into it, but even feigned, having Rodimus pinned to the wall is doing it for him, and he sort of  _ wants _ to be more aggressive. Drift spares a quick glance to the side where their berth is and decides it’s probably okay to carefully—but not too carefully—throw him. So he does, with a snarl to accompany it, and whips himself into a crouch over Rodimus now as well.

It only now occurs to Drift that Rodimus might have liked to be restrained the whole time and he hasn’t got anything to restrain him with, but he supposes there’s nothing he can do about it now. He’ll improvise, and it seems Rodimus will be willing to play along as long as there’s a good component of roughness to it. He cages him in as best he can and leans down over him.

Rodimus seems to have realized he won’t be tied up and changes his act a bit in accordance with that, trying to pull a nervous look with having a ‘big,’ ‘mean’ ‘Decepticon’ hovering over him. It’s a strange way to see his usually confident, fearless captain, and Drift isn’t sure how much he likes it, but he pushes through. “Someone’s looking scared,” he practically sing-songs.

“I’m not afraid of Megatron’s prissy little guard-cat,” Rodimus says, convincingly unconvincing.

He turns his head away when Drift leans in towards his audials. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, little Autobot.” As soon as he says it, it strikes him as extremely unpleasant, but what doesn’t is the surge of Rodimus’ EM field that nearly blows him back. Despite his hesitation, Drift is actually brimming with charged energy himself, and he has to hold in a moan. Instead, he grabs Rodimus’ chin roughly and seals his mouth over the other’s lips.

Rodimus can’t seem to bring himself to kiss without enthusiasm, and Drift is glad. He doesn’t suppose the whole point of this was resistance, but passion and a bit of force. The tension is just the fuel for that, but without any of the actual meaning behind it. Drift dives into his mouth, demanding the dominant role, and this, Rodimus allows. He struggles with the aggressive strokes of Drift’s tongue against his, the roof of his mouth, the nips to his lips where fangs scrape at soft metal. 

Rodimus makes soft whimpers as his vents are stifled by their kiss, and, barely breaking contact, Drift drives his lips over Rodimus’ jaw towards his neck. There’s a gasp, a ghost of heat on his cheek as he moves towards the cords there, and meanwhile, his hand presses down the length of Rodimus’ torso in hard, definite contact, towards his sealed interface panels. Drift, as Deadlock, sinks his fangs into the thick, warm cables, tasting a familiar brush of energon on his glossa as Rodimus gives a wail. Drift sucks at his neck while a single finger traces the outline of Rodimus’ valve panel, teasing the seam at which he knows it opens on. 

Rodimus groans into his mouth and shudders, but doesn’t release his panel. Knowing what Rodimus is angling for, he shoves his captain’s thigh open more and places his whole hand over his heated equipment, applying pressure with his fingers as if he were actually going to pry the panel open, though it slides back quickly as soon as he makes contact. Rodimus is wet, dripping, eager as Drift teases his fingertips across his valve. He keeps his other fingers glued to the mech’s frame and holds him open with a knee pressed against his hiked-up thigh.

Rodimus moans when Drift pulls back from the kiss. Drift tries to plant his sneer back on his face, showing off his fangs again, but he imagines it probably comes off a little fond when he realizes Rodimus is already looking dazed and ready rather than fearful. He seems to remember, closes his lips and swallows down his smile. “You don’t scare me,” Rodimus says. Drift feels as if he’s being beckoned in. With a bit of a rush he presses two fingers into Rodimus’ slick valve. Their slow back-and-forth pace is making Drift frantic with want. Rodimus whines and turns his head away, though to Drift’s trained ear it’s a pleasured sound rather than pained. “You’re a monster,” Rodimus moans theatrically, shifting his hips as little as he can manage. Whatever his character wants seems to be at least a little at odds with what Rodimus himself wants, because he can’t seem to keep his dialogue consistent.

Drift scoffs, pressing in deeper and trying not to moan himself at how easy it is. He spreads his fingers, and it’s almost an audible sound that makes Rodimus moan again. “You little Autobot sluts... You always cry, but your frames beg for more.” Rodimus’ vents catch and he grasps at Drift’s arms, squeezing rather than pulling, twisting his torso. All things that look like protest, but really are just Rodimus grounding himself in touch to Drift, as if he really is trying not to break down and beg. He lets Drift control the flow, and everything else. It must be difficult for him, Drift realizes. The thought makes him smirk harder. “I’ll have you screaming by the end of this, just you wait.” A promise he intends to keep, honestly.

Drift begins moving his fingers in earnest, slow at first, then rougher, faster, squeezing the joints of his fingers up against Rodimus’ glistening lips and stroking slowly inside. Rodimus makes a strangled noise. “Get fragged, Deadlock. You’ll— _ ah _ —have to work for that,” he gasps, trying to bite back all his various sounds. The restraint is visibly paining him, and his vents are erratic and come on bursts, at the end of hard thrusts. 

Drift’s mouth waters as he watches him writhe and squirm under him. He wants more of this frustration. He wants the payoff. He wants to let loose and pleasure Rodimus until he really does scream beg him to stop. Drift wrestles with his impulse to taste him, to work his valve over with his tongue and his teeth and make him overload right now, and then again right after. Maybe a third time. And  _ then _ to frag him into this berth. And...then to wrap him up in his arms and listen to his engine slowly wind down. He’s getting carried away with this fantasy, and the more he indulges it, the more irresistible it becomes. Drift struggles, wanting to give Rodimus what he wants, but also wanting to give him  _ something he really probably wants, _ under a slightly different guise. Will Rodimus be unhappy with him if he breaks character and makes him overload without overloading himself? It doesn’t really fit the bill of the scene.

“ _ Oh _ , ahh _ , stop it _ Deadlock,  _ haa _ …” Rodimus is babbling out weaker and weaker protests, his hands practically massaging the plating on Drift’s arms as he squeezes. Drift swallows, and his mouth immediately re-lubricates.

Frag it.

He leans his aft back on his heels, tugging Rodimus’ frame up his torso with a flourish until the junction of his legs is at his chin. Rodimus yelps as he’s jostled, and he balances himself against the berth as Drift blows cool air across his throbbing equipment, and bares his fangs in a smug grin. “No!” he shouts. 

It’s a sudden enough exclamation that Drift gives pause for a fraction of a second before continuing, wondering if it was serious. But Rodimus reads him and clamps a hand over his own mouth, giving him a look that clearly intonates,  _ Don’t you dare stop _ , but still squirms around him anyway. Drift nods and tries to think of something clever and Decepticon-y to say to recover the mood, but fails, realizing it’s already off-script to plan to eat out his captive, and instead just closes his optics for a brief moment. His mouth is still lubricating heavily, with Rodimus’ primed valve right there in front of him, and his own equipment is burning mercilessly behind its panels. 

He flicks his glossa across Rodimus’ node, watching for a reaction. Rodimus gives yet another theatrical wail and half shouts, “No!” again, but is beginning to wriggle with impatience. Drift smirks and leans in closer, pressing his tongue along Rodimus’ slit, warmth and wetness coming up around his face as Rodimus squirms and continues to babble. Drift goes dizzy in the heat, and draws his tongue up to circle around his node, reveling in it. He flicks his tongue back and forth, applying pressure, careful of his teeth but attentive enough to allow them to graze just a little for more sensation. He keeps his arms around Rodimus’ waist, hugging him to him as his legs lock around Drift’s head. He can feel the tires in Rodimus’ heels rolling against his back, near enough to the plating that holds his Great Sword that it’s actually ticking up his own pleasure. He’s not sure how aware Rodimus is that he’s doing this, but he can’t bring himself to make him stop.

Instead, Drift goes a little more aggressive, jostling Rodimus to shove his face in deeper and cause his heels to slip low over the plating. He moans, and he’s sure that Rodimus feels it because he gasps and pants now in between his steady stream of mindless refusal that sounds mysteriously like encouragement. Drift’s lost track of his uncertainty, and his restraint. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding back before, but now he’s getting into the idea of running his partner raw with relentless stimulation. 

Rodimus overloads under his tongue, moaning loudly and unrestrained as he does. Drift feels the familiar tensing of plating and metal and mesh even as he sucks at his node, as if the vocal cues weren’t enough. But he doesn’t stop. He’s gotten attached to the idea of making Rodimus come a few times before he even gets involved, although the throbbing behind his own plating is distracting enough that he finally lets his spike pressurize against Rodimus’ back as he continues to lick him. Rodimus squirms even more, sensitive from his overload, but Drift knows if he persists he can get him to do it again. He glances down at his face. Rodimus’ expression is all screwed up, and he has his knuckles in his mouth. His optics are unfocused and he’s shivering slightly. It’s a wonderful sight. 

“Y-You evil,  _ evil _ creature… Please... _ ohh _ ...s-sto _ oohh, ahh! _ ” Rodimus’ thighs clamp around Drift’s neck for the second time, cutting off whatever dialogue he’d been intending to spout without the chance of recovery. 

Well, he’d said three, hadn’t he? Drift dives in a third time, thrusting his tongue against the squeezing, sopping opening and flattening his glossa over the node in quick, alternating strokes. He sucks at Rodimus’ shaking frame and rubs his hand over the plating on his stomach, letting the tips of his fingers jump against the seams where his biolights are, each abrupt change in tolerance, divots and clean lines showing the careful engineering of his frame. Rodimus’ heels scrub against his back, sending thrills through his backstruts that just urge him onto his task more. His spike is pressed against Rodimus’ back and he’s dying for stimulation, but he knows it won’t be long. And it’s not. Rodimus’ overloads a third time, fulfilling Drift’s promise he’d made about having him screaming when he does. 

Drift can’t bring himself to drop him, even if that’s what Deadlock would do, so he instead slides him down and gives him a bit of a pause. He crawls over Rodimus again and wipes his face to reveal his smirk again, taking in the visage of the wrecked bot below him. He can’t lie that it’s stimulating, but he still doesn’t want to push Rodimus too far, so he tries to gauge his stamina while he lies limp, expelling harsh, hot vents as his whole frame heaves with the effort. He’s aware of Drift looking at him, maybe reading his thoughts, because he tries to laugh and says, “Is that all you’ve got, Deadlock?”

Drift doesn’t reply, having gotten what he needed. He pulls back and flips Rodimus over onto his front, hiking his still-trembling knees up. They slide out so he’s nearly flat against the berth, but Drift decides Deadlock wouldn’t care, he adjusts his stance to match and thrusts into his twitching valve in one smooth motion, one hand braced against Rodimus’ spoiler, the other pinning his wrist to the side of his head, putting all his weight onto them as he thrusts into the other bot.

“I’d advise you not to aggravate me, Autobot. And to be patient,” Drift grunts, before letting himself give a low groan. Rodimus’ valve tenses and squeezes around his aching spike, welcoming it into his soft, wet heat. There’s no resistance, and he fits in well enough for both of them. They’ve both had more challenging couplings, but there’s something to be said for fragging a bot your own size, and this is it. Comfortable and easy, with the added layers this time of a lot of build-up for a significant pay-off and a broader set of boundaries than they’ve indulged with each other before. Rodimus is vocal now on every thrust, but clearly receptive to it as well. His calipers squeeze around Drift’s spike, rippling and fluttering on his frenzied thrusts, but he’s not sure it’ll be enough for Rodimus to reach a fourth overload. Drift racks his lust-addled brain.

Rodimus’ hand skids against the berth as he tries to use it for support, moaning out more soft protests against ‘Deadlock’ as he does. The angle is losing its effectiveness, as nice as it was in the moment. Rodimus can’t control his limbs enough to give them the steady resistance they both need. “Giving up, Autobot? You’re going limp. Where’s all your bravado now?” he taunts. 

Drift draws back and flips Rodimus roughly back onto his back. He feels better when he can see his face anyway. He’s still a little worried about going too far, after all. 

“Not soft...haa… Trust me,” Rodimus pants. “Ah!” he gasps again as Drift thrusts back into him, caging his arms on either side of him now, not bothering with restraining him anymore. He’s so close to release. He just needs to push them over the edge, and Rodimus gives him the opportunity. “For all your talk, this isn’t so bad… I’m— _ mmn _ —beginning to think you don’t actually...want to hurt me…”

For maybe the first time, Drift really considers what Deadlock would do in response, and the answer is basically something petty and violent. He grips around Rodimus’ throat, leaning forward and squeezing as he frags him. Rodimus chokes and his valve  _ clenches _ , fluttering near overload but narrowly missing, not without a profound effect on Drift, though. “Don’t worry…” Drift pants, “Just taking my time. This is only round one,” he says, wishing he meant it, but he knows this is going to take it all out of him. He watches Rodimus carefully for signs that this is too much, and it only just occurs to him that was why they’d agreed on a safeword when it all becomes unnecessary. He bucks into Rodimus as they both reach their peak, overloading in tandem, equipment crashing together as Drift’s hand squeezes around Rodimus’ throat. 

Drift drops his hand at the first opportunity, though he’s still in the midst of riding out his own powerful release. He quickly finds himself going limp, his frame begging for a bit of rest after such a vigorous session, and just like that he drops the charade as well. Drift collapses onto the berth next to a harshly venting Rodimus, tugging him into his arms and squeezing him with all the strength left in his arms. 

They lie still for a moment, and Drift gets the rest of his wish as he listens to the roar of their engines slowly die down to a more natural purr. Rodimus finally adjusts himself onto his side, fitting into Drift better and leaning his helm against his chest. 

“Was that...what you wanted? Was I too mean?” Drift murmurs after their processes have long since returned to standard resting rates. 

Rodimus laughs, heartily, but still sounding spent. “Not too mean.” His fingers crawl up Drift’s back towards his sensitive paneling again and play the seams. Drift gets chills again, melting slightly in his captain’s grasp. He wants to ask more, but now it seems like he could make better use of his time tracing the seams of Rodimus’ paneling under his fingers as they lie together, and Rodimus can give him notes on how to be a better Decepticon later.


End file.
